


Never Wanted to Dance

by coricomile



Series: Dance, Dance AU [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, dance dance au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:43:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick's pretty sure his band left him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Wanted to Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naotalba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naotalba/gifts).



Patrick's pretty sure his band left him. 

He's still sticky under his clothes, hair wet from ducking his head under the faucet, hat in one hand, jacket in the other, face still pink from the fading heat. He's starving, too, and there's a bag of Skittles with his name on it under the backseat of the van. Which is missing.

"Fuck." Patrick digs in his pockets for his phone, fingers still raw from playing. Freezing, he remembers handing it over to Joe before the show. He grits his teeth and hopes the call to Marie was worth the pounding he's going to get. Patrick kicks at the asphalt uselessly and hopes they notice soon.

"Martin!"

Patrick jumps when he's grabbed from behind, fists already balled up. He's little, but he's scrappy. The person behind him laughs and let's go, the white of his dress shirt flashing at the edges of Patrick's vision. He turns the kid off because, seriously, not cool, but when he catches sight of the face, he frowns.

"Pete?"

"...No?" Pete leans in, eyes narrowed, slicked back hair going spikey around his face. "Martin, man, did you hit your head when you fell?" One hand lifts to touch Patrick's jaw, but Patrick smacks it down irriatbly.

"Pete, not funny. Where's the van?" Patrick's stomach twists when Pete steps closer.

"Martin, hey." Pete touches Patrick's cheek with gentle fingertips, turning his head from side to side. The sleeve of his shirt rides up, and there's bare, clean skin instead of the jumble of ink Patrick's used to. "Are you okay? Do you want to sit?"

"Who are you?" 

"...Lewis? Your best friend since birth?" 

Before Patrick can reply, he's being hauled off, lifted up like a child onto the bed of an old, rundown truck. The paint's chipped, and there's no tailgate on the bed, the liner cracked from wear. 

"Do you need to go to the hospital?" Lewis runs careful fingers through Patrick's damp hair, methodically checking for bumps. 

Patrick stares at him, tongue thick in his mouth. This close, he can see the small things that prove this kid isn't Pete- the scar at his temple, the lack of dye at the ends of his hair, the straightness of his teeth. But, still, Patrick sees Pete, Pete, Pete all over. It's eerie.

"Martin, hey." Lewis waves a hand in front of Patrick's face, his smile nervous. "Stay with me."

"I'm not Martin," Patrick says finally. He catches the look of disbelief of Lewis' face. "I'm Patrick. I played here tonight-"

"Dude, your acting is shit." Lewis tosses his jacket and hops up next to him. He pulls a pair of thick rimmed glasses from his pocket and slips the on, blinking a few times to adjust. He's looking less like Pete by the second. "They were pretty awesome, though." Lewis grins, all teeth. "The singer was pretty hot," he adds, kicking his feet against the bumper. Patrick blushes and feels instantly like a chick. He's still not used to the rockstar thing. Frowning, Lewis shakes his head. "Becca left with Jason."

"I'm sorry?" Patrick has no idea who either Becca or Jason are, but he recognizes the hangdog expression from too many nights tucked up against Pete's side. The shoulder pressed against his raises and falls.

"Whatever, y'know?" Lewis smiles at him- big enough to be familiar, sweet enough to be entirely foreign- and bumps their dangling legs together. "You were, as always, right."

There's an awkward silence, heavy over the truck. Patrick's not sure of what to say to convince Lewis of who he actually is, or how to explain that he apparently looks identical to the dude's best friend. He's opening his mouth to blindly attempt when Lewis' hand lands warm on his thigh.

Patrick likes to think of himself as a good person- he pays his taxes on time, tries to keep his voice down in the library, and has actually helped little old ladies cross the street. He likes his karma in the plus column, thanks. But here's this kid- dorky, rocking an honest-to-god pocket protector- that might as well be Wentz spawn, touching him as freely as Pete ever had, warm and open and a little sad, and Patrick's only so strong.

Lewis startles when Patrick kisses him, soft and sweet on the corner of the mouth, half-tensed to take a punch. There's no fists flying, though, just wide eyes staring at him adoringly. Patrick winces.

"Shit, I'm-"

Lewis tastes like soda water. A little flavorless, maybe bitter, tongue slipping into Patrick's mouth too soon, hands rubbing at Patrick's thighs, eager and inexperienced. Patrick catches him around the waist, eyes narrowed. This way, he can see Pete, can see too-big grins across the van and feel wet, opened mouth kisses on his neck.

"I didn't-" Lewis' eyes are close, half-lidded, his mouth open, stunned. Patrick feels a twist of guilt under his skin. "Martin-"

"Patrick."

"Patrick," Lewis repeats, eyes narrowed. His jaw ticks, and it's Pete, Pete, Pete. "Is this just tonight?" As Patrick's steeling himself, readying himself to apologize, Lewis leans in again, mouth hot and hard and wet, hands too tight. Patrick topples back, Lewis heavy on top of him, head smacking against the tirewell.

"We shouldn't-"

"I'll play your stupid game," Lewis says, slick and biting against the corner of Patrick's mouth. "I'll play your stupid game, and I'll tell you I love you, and it'll ruin everything, but this is worth it."

Patrick's good karma is slipping away at an alarming pace. His gut twists, heart too tight in his chest. He knows, oh, god, he  _knows_  this desperation, knows that look of stupid, reckless, hopeless devotion, and. And, he's going straight to hell- no stopping at go,  _straight to hell_ because he wraps his hands around Lewis' wrists and pulls, cracking their jaws together, mouth sliding blindly over smooth, hot skin.

Lewis, for as skinny as he is, is heavy on Patrick's lap, knees sharp points of pressure on the outsides of Patrick's thighs. What he lacks in technique he makes up in eagerness, tongue hot against Patrick's, hands up under the soft cotton of Patrick's shirt.

Patrick keeps expecting the kid to act like Pete- to pin him down, take control. But Lewis is sweet as honey, tender and young and nothing but awkward groping and timid rocks of his hips. A small part of Patrick feels smug because the kid on his lap is so, so obviously a  _virgin_ , and a voice too much like Pete's is whispering to him about how hot that is.

"I wanna-" Lewis shoves at Patrick's shirt, restless fingers against Patrick's stomach and chest, until Patrick scruffs it and yanks it off. There's a time for modesty, and that time is not now.

Lewis stares at him for a long moment, eyes big and dark behind his ugly glasses, lips parted. Then, he's sucking at Patrick's collarbone, all teenage boy out to mark his territory. He's hard, rubbing himself shamelessly against Patrick's thigh. Patrick shifts- just a little, a little-

 _Oh._

Lewis gasps, damp and hot against Patrick's neck, head rolling forward. His glasses slide off, bouncing against the truckbed. Patrick knocks them to safety as he falls back again, the cold metal of the truck a shock to his over-heated skin.

"Martin-" Lewis shoves his hips forward, on the edge of too hard, and Patrick's pretty sure he's going to have bruises from the fingers digging into his skin, but,  _shit_ , it is going to be  _worth it_. "I wanna- I-"

There's wet hot sinking in through Patrick's jeans. Lewis throws his head back, eyes closed, the long line of his throat sweat slick and solid, and Patrick thinks,  _that's what Pete looks like when he comes_. 

"I'm sorry," Lewis says, voice hoarse, face red. He swallows, adams' apple bobbing. "Let me- I mean." He fumbles with the fly of Patrick's jeans, electric jerks of  _awesomeawesomeawesome_  biting at Patrick's spine every time Lewis' knuckles brush against his cock.

There's a burst of cold air against his bare skin, and Patrick's reminded that they're still in the parking lot, and that his bits and pieces are out for the world to see. This becomes less of a concern quickly because his bits and pieces are suddenly hidden in the wet heat of Lewis' mouth,  _oh, holy shit_.

"Fuck." Patrick's hands fly to the boy's hair, fingers crunching through too much gel as he feels Lewis gag around him. It takes an incredible strength to stop himself from coming on the spot because that's Pete's face with the slick mouth and wet eyes and damp hairline, no matter the name currently attached to it.

The head is sloppy- too wet, the nick of teeth making Patrick jerk back more than once, but Lewis keeps going, staring up with wide eyes all the while, hands restless on Patrick's thighs. Patrick whines when Lewis pulls off with a wet  _pop_ , head falling back against the truckbed. 

"Would you let me- I mean, one day, could I fuck you?" 

Patrick feels his stomach tighten at the thought of Pete fucking him, and he comes, thick stripes hitting the underside of Lewis' jaw, staining the collar of his dress shirt. Lewis blinks, the hand on Patrick's thigh keeping up the steady petting through his jeans.

"Is that a yes?" Lewis wipes his chin with the back of his hand, grinning to himself. Patrick can't stop the soft bubble of laughter that breaks free from his chest.

There's a flash of headlights from the road, and Patrick maybe breaks the record for post-sex dressing. His dick is still wet in his last clean pair of boxers, and his shirt sticks to his sweaty back, but at least he's not naked when the van- oh, thank god- rolls in next to the truck.

"I cannot  _believe_  the nerve of kids these days," comes Pete's voice from an open window. The flush across the back of Patrick's neck gets hotter as the door flies open. Pete hops out, leading some kid by the scruff of his shirt.

"You stalked Midtown for, like, a year," Joe shouts from the front. Pete waves a hand dismissively.

The kid he's holding on to is. Huh. Patrick looks him over, absently rubbing a hand across the line of his own jaw. The kid- Martin, Patrick assumes- looks guilty, head hung. Patrick figures he looks nearly identical. He can feel Lewis beside him glancing at him, and then at Martin. Patrick keeps his eyes trained on the pavement.

"I demand the return of my Patrick," Pete says, frog marching Martin to the truck. He does a quick doubletake at Lewis, eyes going wide for a second. Patrick can sympathize.

"Martin?" Lewis hops down, reaching for his friend.

"Yeah."

"Um." Patrick slides down, knocking into Pete as he goes. "It was nice. Um. Getting to know you. Bye."

Running to the van is not cowardly.

They're on the road, Andy driving, Joe snoring in the passenger's seat, when Pete plunks himself down onto Patrick's lap, ignoring Andy's shouts to  _stop blocking the window, Jesus Christ, Pete_. Patrick's underwear is stiff at the front, and the discomfort grows as Pete squirms around to get comfortable.

"So. How was your adventure with my clone?" Pete grins, bringing his face too close to Patrick's for comfort.

"He's not your clone, dude," Patrick says, leaning back. "And he was a good kid. Whatever." There's a sudden darkness around Pete's eyes, and Patrick doesn't bother trying to get away as Pete tugs on the collar of his shirt. He flushes as it rubs at the large, dark bruise that's already developed, staring out the window to keep himself from freaking out.

"Nice kid, huh?" Pete jams his fingertips into the bruise, too rough to be playing. He slides off Patrick's lap, climbing over the back of the middle row. "I can be a nice kid, too, Rick."

Patrick clenches his jaw and watches the road fly by.

 


End file.
